One Thousand Words
by Supernatural on Graph Paper
Summary: Castiel Milton was gifted with an artistic talent, not a social one. But eventually he's going to have to interact with people other than his photographer friend, Gabriel. When Castiel meets Dean, everything changes, and Castiel finds himself wanting more than just a friendship. Thing is, he can't tell what Dean wants. Destiel, Sabriel on the side, Artist-AU
1. Forms of Art

**Here's my new fanfiction, One Thousand words. It's an Artist!Cas AU and I really like it because Cas is (in the fanfic) the most awkward, adorable thing ever.**

**Anyway, I don't own these guys.**

**Read on, lovelies.**

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Some people are born with rather artistic sounding names, names that say "this kid is going to go far, and not in a conventional way." Castiel Milton (Cas Milton on the bottom right corner of all his work) was one of those people. It didn't hurt that he actually was artistically inclined, having picked up a crayon before he had been able to talk or walk. He excelled in every artistic endeavor that he partook in (excluding pottery, but Castiel didn't talk about his freshman year very much). He wasn't bad in intellectual areas, but he just didn't put forth as much effort towards school as he did towards his art. Art, sketching especially, was his lifeblood.

Castiel was self-taught, drawing what he saw and how he saw it. How else was there to draw other than from his own perspective? Castiel only started taking official art classes once he started high school, and was stunned by how many other artists there were in his school alone.

Not that Castiel had ever thought himself to be the only artist. He wasn't ignorant. Naïve, reclusive, yes, but his mind was open to anything the world threw at him. Perhaps that was why Castiel gravitated towards the arts. Anything goes in art, after all, so why not surround himself with possible ideas?

His first friend was Gabe Speight. Gabe was a senior when Castiel was a sophomore, and they met in Castiel's seventh period photography class. Castiel knew he was socially awkward, he always had been, after all, but not being social meant that Castiel had more time to draw. He was always drawing, even in photography class, where he sat, alone, at the center table. While the other future photographers talked and laughed about who-knows-what, Castiel sat in the center of it all, drawing, sketching each of his classmates.

Castiel had a talent. He only needed to look at his subject once, like a camera, before he had a perfect copy of their face in his head. It didn't matter what angle his subject was sitting at; after about forty seconds, Castiel was set to sketch.

Castiel never asked Gabe Speight what made him move over to the center table to sit across from the dark-haired future artist. Castiel suspected that it was curiousity, but if it had been, Castiel must be a very entertaining person, seeing as, twelve years after Gabe had sat down across from Castiel with a bag of Skittles in his hand, Gabe Speight was still Castiel's (only) friend. Because Gabe was constant, he was often used as Castiel's subject matter. The same did not work for Gabe, who had become a free-lance photographer after "suffering through four years of air-headed art-heads," as Gabe referred to college as.

Gabe was the opposite of Castiel in most respects, and that included his out-going, social personality. Gabe was the type to see a random person on the streets of New York City and pull them off to the side to have them pose for a random picture. Sometimes Gabe didn't even bother to ask.

Gabe had set up his own personal darkroom in the bedroom of his two room apartment. He slept on the couch, and the window of the bedroom turned darkroom had been boarded up and duct-taped so thickly that Castiel often wondered if a sledge hammer could break through it. But that was Gabe's style: ever-dramatic and spontaneous. Castiel was much more thought out.

The two were at Gabe's apartment now, Castiel's various art pieces spread out across every availiable horizontal surface Castiel could find. It was chaos; it was Castiel's chaos, which was odd, because Castiel didn't do chaos. But Castiel wasn't thinking about chaos; he couldn't think any coherent thoughts right now.

Castiel had just been told that he was getting an art showing as the Chuck Shurley Art Hall, and he had two weeks to prepare twenty pieces for the showing, and they all had to be matted and framed. Professionally, of course. CSAH was no playground, as both Casstiel and Gabe knew.

"You're twenty-seven and they're already asking for your stuff? Do you have any idea how good this will look on your résumé?" Gabe was perched on the back of his couch/bed, sitting on his feet and balancing a plate of cake on his knees. His camera hung off the side of his legs, abandoned momentarily. "Cas, stop freaking out, because if you can't choose what to send in, I'll just send in some of my stuff and claim it as yours. And we both know what happened the last time I had stuff in a professional setting."

It hadn't ended well, for both Gabe and Castiel. Castiel knew this, and he also knew that there was no way that his best (and only) friend was going to ruin Castiel's first big show. But Castiel was too stressed, too nervous about this showing to say anything in reply to Gabe. Instead, he ran his pale, rainbowed hands (he had been working with oil pastels when the CSAH staff had asked for a showing from his artwork) through his already messy hair, messing it up further.

Gabe took another bite of cake and rolled his eyes. "Couldn't you lose your shit at your own place? My legs are cramping from sitting here like this, and I can't feel my feet."

Castiel whipped his head around, his usually wide blue eyes narrowed in a way that signified "Cas Milton will murder you in your sleep tonight." Gabe lifted both of his hands, one hand holding the fork between two fingers. "Hey, just saying. You could show a bit of consideration to the guy who's letting you throw all of your stuff on the floor of his apartment."

"Yes, Gabe, I could, but I am currently having a mental breakdown." Castiel's hands stopped messing up his hair and buried themselves in his ever-present trench coat. "I don't know what to put in the showing, and I came to you because you're my only friend and I didn't know where else to go."

"Aw, how sweet." Gabe mock pouted. "Now move your stuff before I have broken feet."

Castiel , finally out of panic-mode, sends his friend a final glare before moving his drawings into semi-organized piles. Castiel hadn't really thought through his actions that afternoon; he had just grabbed his two crates full of miscellaneous finished pieces of art and ran to Gabe's apartment, hitching a taxi once he had registered that he was running through the streets of New York City in a paint-streaked t-shirt, jeans, and trench coat (that had somehow managed to avoid getting any paint stains on it in all of Castiel's years of wearing it), carrying crates of art under his arms. Even for New York, that was odd.

The "Holy shit high class people want my stuff" effect hadn't fully kicked in until after Castiel had told the taxi driver where Gabe's apartment was, which was a good thing, as Castiel had almost forgotten to pay the taxi driver in his panic.

Five minutes after Castiel had finally calmed down, he and Gabe were sitting on Gabe's couch, sorting through and reorganizing Castiel's half put together portfolio. Castiel's fingers were shaking as he flipped through various charcoals of the inhabitants of New York. He had always enjoyed drawing people. They had so much detail, and they were fun to try to recreate of a flat piece of fiber. Paper was two-dimensional. People had three dimensions, and thousands more layers of interesting. Castiel didn't know many people, and he only talked to Gabe and occasionally art show directors, but even from his very limited experience, Castiel knew that people, normal, socialising people, were very in-depth. Re-creating strangers on paper after having looked at them for only a minute? That was the magic, that, even without the background knowledge of a person, Castiel could accurately portray his subjects.

"Whoa, isn't this from, like, high school?" Gabe pulls out an older, slightly crinkled paper with an inked portrait of Castiel and Gabe's photography teacher. She was kneeling down, one eye squinted shut and pointing her camera up a lamp post. Above the sketch, also in ink, the words "composition is the most important part" were scrawled in Castiel's handwriting.

"Yes, that's our teacher. I don't remember her name though." Castiel nodded, going back to his own stack of art. "I'm not submitting that one. It's too old."

"It's really good though." Gabe was still inspecting the picture, gold eyes taking in every detail Castiel had added. "Almost as accurate as a photograph. Seriously, you're… damn Cas, how are we even friends? You should be with the Michaelangelos of today, not some free-lance photographer sleeping on a couch."

"I'm bad at meeting people." Castiel whispers. It was true. Talking over the phone of emailing possible clients about his work was no problem for Castiel, but once he met his subjects face-to-face, the dark-haired artist wasn't able to speak. Or, if he could, he'd mumble, stutter, say the wrong things, or speak art jargon that confused the people he was trying to talk to. It was why he tried to avoid working with people directly. If someone wanted to have Castiel draw them, they usually had to go through Gabe.

"Hey, you'll get past it." Castiel knew that Gabe meant well for him, but when a person hears the same thing for twelve years and nothing happens, it gets harder to believe that there will be change. Not that Castiel hadn't tried, he was just an overly shy introvert, and had the social intelligence of a rock. Actually, a rock was probably better at handling society than Castiel was.

"Thanks, Gabe. I think we've got enough for now." Castiel pulls the fifteen various chosen portraits off into a separate pile, them begins reloading the other drawings into their respective bins. Gabe lets Castiel do the sorting, knowing that the younger man has his own odd system of how his artworks are ordered.

Gabe leans back onto the couch, noticing that, outside, the sun was down and the lights were up in the city. "Hey, Cas, wanna go grab a beer to celebrate your success?"

"Why aren't you jealous?" It had just occurred to Castiel that Gabe had been nothing other than supportive for the past five hours that Castiel had spent in his apartment. Not that Gabe usually got jealous whenever Castiel out-did him; ever since they had met, Gabe had told Castiel that Castiel would be the first of the two of them to really make it in the art world, and that Castiel had better not forget where he came from, otherwise Gabe might just have to come in and mess with Castiel's high-life. Castiel knew he's never leave Gabe behind, not after Castiel had lost his family because Castiel dropped out of medical school to go become an artist in New York, which was actually Gabe's idea.

In response to Castiel's question, Gabe shrugged. "You're one of my closest friends, and you're kind of like the little brother I never had. Why the hell would I be anything other than estatic about you getting into CSAH? Besides, I know you'll be dragging me along with you to the show, and you're using some drawings of me, so I'll get noticed. And unlike you, I _like_ being the center of attention."

"Of course." Castiel dean-pans, but he's grinning on the inside. Gabe stands up and pops his shoulders. "So, about those beers… are we a 'yes' or a 'no, Gabe, I'm going to stay here and be my anti-social self'?"

"Yes." Castiel nods, and tosses Gabe his apartment keys. "I believe this is a proper time for outside celebration."

Gabe mutters something along the lines of "formal fucking asshat" as he passes Castiel, but there's a smirk on his face so Castiel takes it as a sideways compliment. Castiel follows Gabe out of the apartment building, blue eyes taking in all of the interesting objects (and people) they pass, storing the images in the back of his mind for later use.

The two enter a bar situated between two high-end fashion boutiques. Gabe, of course, comments on the unusual juxtaposition of the bar. One of the bartenders, who is picking up some empty glasses, overheard the comment and chuckled. "Hey, we didn't pick the location, we just take the job."

Castiel had never really paid attention to people's voices before. He'd never had to. But the voice of the bartender struck him, grabbing Castiel's attention before the artist could register his attention had been diverted. And then Castiel found himself staring into a pair of the greenest eyes he had ever glimpsed in his twenty-seven years of existence. And that moment, as Castiel took in everything he could about the man's face, he knew that he'd be using up whole sketchbooks on this single face. Short, light-brown hair that begged to have someone's fingers running through it, a splash of freckles that paralleled the stars in pattern, stubble that was short enough to be attractive, but long enough that it wouldn't be scratchy, full, pouty lips that were pulled back into a welcoming smile, teeth that lit the small bar better than the obnoxious fluorescent lights behind the counter, and the eyes…

"Cas, reality." Gabe snaps his fingers in front of Castiel's face, bringing the dark-haired artist out of his reverie. Gabe rolls his eyes." Sorry, Mr. Space-case here has a staring problem."

"Nah, it's fine. I'll take it as a compliment." The man sends another smile towards Castiel, who is currently trying to shrink into his trench coat. He hates getting caught staring, even if the person he was staring as wasn't offended by the staring. Gabe notices Castiel's hunched posture, and nudges his friend. "Hey, Cas, it's okay. You didn't freak him out."

"I know, Gabriel. Can we just get our drinks?" Castiel mutters, his face heating up as he speaks. Somehow he had managed to keep from stumbling over the words, but his voice had come out in its usual deep, crackly way, and that bothered Castiel. He didn't like his voice, not around anyone he didn't already know. It didn't match his personality; it made him seem more dark and brooding than he really was.

Gabe grins at his companion, seeming to enjoy how awkward Castiel is around the bartender. "Of course, Cassie."

Then, to the bartender who has been patiently observing the exchange between the two men, "Two beers, whatever's on tap."

"No problem." And then Castiel's new favourite subject is off leaving Castiel and Gabe to slide into two empty chairs, Castiel's blu eyes never leaving the Bartender's head as the bartender moves through the people. Castiel doesn't know his name. He doesn't need to, because his face is permenantly embedded in Castiel's mind. Every freckle, the scar above his left eyebrow, the correct shade of green for his eyes, everything. And Castiel wonders why this man is so intriguing. He's just another person, a flawless person at that, so why does Castiel find himself etching the man's face into the table with a sharpie pen he found in the pocket of his trench coat?

"Oh shit." Castiel mutters as he realises that he's done, the half-finished headshot smiling up at its creator. Gabe's smirking, trying to keep back a laugh. And failing. "Wow, someone's a bit eager to play."

Castiel opens his mouth in what would have been a very lame retort (Castiel was only eloquent in his head, unfortunately), but at that moment, the bartender chose to reappear with two beers in his hands. Castiel's eyes widened to inhuman proportions and he slung his arms over the table sketch. The sharpie was flung off the table in the process, and Gabe bit back another laugh as it skittered straight to Castiel's bartender's feet. He looked down at the marker, then at the red-faced Castiel who was strewn haphazardly across the table in an opposite-of-subtle attempt to hide the sketch, then to the smirking Gabe, who was biting deep enough into the fleshy part of his thumb to leave a bruise. The bartender moves the two beers so that they're both in his right hand, grabs the sharpie pen from the floor, and deposits all three items at Gabe and Castiel's table.

"I think you dropped this, Cas." Castiel nearly falls out of his seat because not only is this guy talking to him, but he's being nice and he somehow knows Castiel's name. Which means that either Castiel is more popular than he thinks (which means it's time to get the hell out because Castiel is not meant to be in the spotlight, ever) of Gabe referred to Castiel by name in their earlier exchange with the man. Most likely the second possibility, as Gabe would have been gracious enough to inform Castiel that there were people other than coffeehouse visiting, chai-tea chugging hipsters that were infatuated with his stuff. Gabe could be an insensitive dick sometimes (like now, he was just sitting there, laughing, as Castiel was thrust mercilessly into the arms of a gorgeous bartender who picked up on Castiel's nickname-slash-name he used on all his work), but the photographer knew when to draw the line and protect Castiel.

"…!" Castiel lets out a noise that sounds like someone strangling a cannibalistic Russell Terrier, and his face continues to show off all the possible shades of red the world has to offer.

And then Gabe decides that he's had enough fun for one day, and that Castiel might just explode from all the socializing he's having to do right now, and so the photographer butts in. "Yeah, that his. Thanks…"

"Dean. My name's Dean." A final smile and another exchange of "thanks" (between Gabe and Dean, Castiel is too busy staring at the sharpie that has Dean's DNA on it) and then Dean's off to the next set of customers, taking their order or refilling their drinks or whatever else it is that bartenders do when they aren't returning dropped Sharpie pens to socially incapable artists named Castiel Milton.

Gabe had turned back to his beer, but Castiel knew what the look in his friend's gold eyes meant; twelve years of being side-kick to a twisted prankster had taught Castiel that when the only signs of emotion were coming from Gabe's eyes, some serious shit was about to hit the fan. As the look grew more intense, Castiel began to fear for Dean;s life. Sure, Gabe had never gotten someone _killed_ in any of his ridiculous stunts (he had maimed a few victims and Castiel had had to bail his friend out of jail once for hospitalizing a man by running him over with a motorized shopping cart), but Gabe had never looked so disturbingly delighted before. Actually, he had, but there had been chocolate waffles involved, and not screwing people, so Castiel didn't count that event.

Castiel swallowed another swig of beer. "Gabriel, whatever you are thinking…"

"You like him." Gabe points his half-empty bottle at Castiel, a grin once again on his face, which means he's finished his plotting and is now ready to act on his scheme. "You like Dean, that's why you're always staring at him, even though you know his face. It's because you like his face."

"He does have nice freckles." Castiel had always been fond of freckled subjects. Freckles were like snowflakes to Castiel: no two splashes of freckles were alike. Having freckles meant that one was likely to be a reoccurring subject in Castiel Milton's sketches, at least until the pattern of freckles had been conquered and, satisfied, Castiel would move along to another bystander.

But Gabe didn't mean that Dean had nice freckles. Gabe was sure he did (he trusted Castiel on certain features of a person), but it wasn't the freckles that had drawn Castiel in, and Gabe knew this for a fact. Castiel had acted differently around the bartender, more self-conscious and awkward and protective of the table art. That, and the red light show Castiel's face put on every time that Dean was in range. It was the tell-tale blush of a fresh infatuation, and of course, Castiel would be far too naïve to be able to comprehend that he was attracted to an absolute stranger.

Gabe knows this. Gabe understands the underlying message in all the blushing and nonsense sprouting from the opposite side of the table. Castiel was developing a crush on this Dean guy, and Gabe was going to make sure that his lonely friend got something from this whole episode. Castiel was twenty-seven, and his social life consisted of Gabe, sketching like a madman, and watching Doctor Who for hours. Gabe would be a shitty friend if he didn't at least try to set Castiel up with the bartender.

"Cas… sometimes I wonder how you ever survived four years of pre-med alone before you fled Maine and joined me here. You're seriously bad at this game." Gabe takes another sip of his beer, grinning around the bottleneck. "Are you really that oblivious?"

"Oblivious? To what?" Castiel tilts his head to the side, the way he always does whenever he is completely clueless as to what is going on around him. It made him look like a curious puppy, and it made Gabe realise just how naïve his friend was. Gabe finished the bottle and ran his hand through his hair. "Well, fine. I'll just have to spell it out for you. Okay, so…"

Gabe leans forward and pointed at Castiel, whose head was still tilted. "You, Castiel Milton, have the hots for Dean," Gabe points over to where Dean is serving people from behind the bar, "and I," Gabe now points to himself, "am going to make sure that you two get together, if it kills me. Which it might, seeing as you can't even speak to the guy."

"I'm not experienced in these things the way you are." Castiel trails his fingers over the lines of the Dean-sketch, once again mesmerised by the man's face. Gabe lets Castiel admire his work for a few moments as Gabe thinks about what Castiel had just said. Yes, Gabe had dated before, but the dates were more physical than anything else, and they had never lasted very long. It worked for Gabe, but Castiel wasn't Gabe, not even close. Which meant that Gabe actually had no experience.

"This is going to be interesting." Gabe mutters to himself as Castiel continues to focus on the sketch. "Psh… interesting doesn't even come close to what this'll be like."

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**And that is all.**

**PS: Because these chapters are ridiculously long, updates will not be frequent at all. But while you wait, please review this story or any of my others.**

**-Tammy**


	2. How not to make friends

**Hey, I'm back. Sorry for the lack of updating (and don't expect ch.3 to be any faster, sorry), but I don't have much computer access. **

**Anyway, I would like to thank ivydevoss,  .3, AnnieWrites, KeiaWinchester, Fallen-Angel-Spirit, and Hawkeyefan1311 for their reviews. You guys are fabulous, and I hope you (and anyone else who jumps on the _One Thousand Words_ train, continues to enjoy what I put out there!**

**Fallen-Angel-Spirit: Yeah, I actually based this version of Cas off of me, and Gabriel off of my photography buddy, Melissa. Except Melissa's not as crazy. **

**Anyway, here's chapter two, please enjoy!**

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Two weeks had passed since Castiel had gone out for a beer with Gabe. Two weeks had passed since CSAH had asked Castiel for a showing. Two weeks had passed since Castiel had met a freckled bartender by the name of Dean. Two weeks had passed since Gabe had sworn that he would get Casteil a date with Dean. One week had passed since Gabe had told Castiel that he had bought three tickets to the art show, one for Gabe, one for Dean, and one for Dean's brother that Dean said was "more into the art stuff anyway."

And now, the time had finally come. Castiel's show was tonight, and Castiel had nothing to do too keep his mind off of the upcoming social event. He had tried sketching, which was what he usually did whenever he was nervous, but that hadn't worked, and the sketches had all come out badly. Castiel's anxiety was getting the better of him, and he still had a few hours before he had to leave to go to the CSAH presentation. Castiel pulled at the sleeves of his trench coat, and glanced over at the large metal clock that hung above the tiny kitchen table in the kitchen of his apartment. Blue eyes flew open; three hours had somehow slipped away from Castiel's life, and now only an hour was remaining between now and Castiel's doom AKA art show. After all, Dean would be there, somewhere in the crowd, and Castiel couldn't face Dean, not now, probably not ever.

If it weren't for the fact that Castiel's work was the art being shown, Castiel would probably just skip out on the whole thing and stay home, safe, in his apartment, and alone. But one does not skip out on his own upscale art show. Especially if it's his first, and his best friend just so happens to know where he lives, and is not above crawling through an air vent and kidnapping a trench coat clad artist.

Castiel decided that sealing off all of his windows and air vents to prevent future attacks of Gabe would be a good idea, and it would also keep his mind off of his impending doom. He was in the middle of duct-taping off the final air vent when he heard the sound of his door being slammed open and a familiar voice called out, "Cas, I'm _baaack_!"

"Hello, Gabriel." Castiel slid the roll of duct tape onto the sleeve of his trench coat and left the hallway to go to the front of his apartment to greet his friend. Gabe had already taken off the blazer (the shorter man was already dressed in a suit for the show but Castiel was not) and was sitting on a countertop, looking like he owned the place as usual. Upon noticing Castiel's half-assed _I was in the middle of something artistic when you entered into my life_ attire, Gabe's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, aren't you under dressed."

"I know. I was duct-taping the air vents." Castiel pulled off the roll of tape and sat it down on the counter next to Gabe. Gabe shrugs. "If that's how you wanna secure the place, go for it. You still have to get dressed, Cas. CSAH doesn't care if you're the artist; if you aren't in a suit they'll be pissed."

Castiel nodded, and left Gabe in the front of the apartment so that he (Castiel) can go change into his suit. Fifteen minutes and a backwards tie later, and Castiel was back, throwing his trench coat back on and ignoring the look Gabe was giving him. Castiel always wore his trench coat; it was something like a child's safety blanket to him, a comforting item that made the user feel safe no matter what the environment was. Castiel wasn't going to leave his trench coat behind, not for something as terrifying as having an art show where people other than hipsters would make their appearances known. And Dean would be there too, Dean, the green-eyed, freckled bartender that had filled up most of Castiel's brand new sketch book, as well as every other blank piece of paper Castiel had gotten his hands on in the past two weeks. To say that Castiel was obsessed would be the understatement of the millennia. Castiel had never drawn a person as many times as he had drawn Dean (Gabe included, even though Castiel had been drawing Gabe for twelve years and had only known Dean for two weeks. What the fuck was up with that?). Castiel decided to keep that little piece of information to himself; he didn't think that Gabe would be too happy to hear that Castiel apparently valued an almost stranger over a best friend of twelve years. Of course there was the alternate product, which would be Gabe telling Dean that Castiel had an awkward little (big) crush on him. Castiel didn't really want that.

Gabe slid off the counter, bringing Castiel back to reality. "Alright, fine. Wear the damn trench coat. But if we're going to get there on time, then we should probably leave five minutes ago."

"Taxi." Castiel said, because he hates the subway. He hated all the people shoving around, hated sitting next to strangers who played shitty music too loud with their head phones on, hated having people recognise him and try to talk to him in public. Subways were crowded. Subways had people. Castiel didn't do crowded, nor did he do people.

They ended up taking a taxi halfway across New York City, pulling up in front of the marble staircase that had the words Chuck Shurley Art Hall printed across the front in a metallic colour that Castiel presumed was actual gold; this place was no one's playground.

Castiel stepped out after Gabe, his hands shaking as he paid the driver. This was it. It all ended here, and Castiel felt as though he were about to bring back his lunch from three (or more, time wasn't making much sense to Castiel at the moment) hours ago. Castiel swallowed, his throat dry, and turned to Gabe. He shook his head. "I can't do this, Gabriel."

"Yes you can." Gabe stepped back down from the two stairs that he had already walked up. "Castiel James Milton, I swear to all things made of sugar that I will _carry_ you into that building, over my shoulder like a dead man, if I have to, but even if you just stay back in a corner for the whole damned thing, _you are going into that building_."

"Dean's in there." Castiel said, but he didn't resist when Gabe grabbed his arm and pulled Castiel up the stairs. Gabe didn't bother to look back at Castiel when he replied with "well, _duh_, he's _supposed_ to be there. _I invited him_. I'd be personally offended if the mutton head didn't show his face."

_I'd be offended too _are Castiel's final thoughts before the doors swing open and a man tries to take Castiel's trench coat away. Castiel nearly leaps onto the nearest person (who happens to be Gabriel) to try to keep from losing his trench coat to a closet full of other people's coats where it might be given to some other attendee by mistake. Gabe shoves Castiel away and gives the door man his blazer, then apologises for Castiel being a possessive bastard about the trench coat. Gabe turns on his camera (which is slung around his neck as it always is whenever Gabe's not at his apartment) and stuffs the lens cap into his pocket. With one hand on the camera, Gabe strides past Castiel and into the crowd, searching out new subjects (or victims, depending on who's asking). Castiel makes his own way through the people, maneuvering the way a skilled New Yorker would. Not that Castiel should really be able to qualify as "skilled," seeing as, in the six years he's lived in New York City, he's only gone out of his apartment a few times a month. Gabe always comes over to Castiel's apartment, and brings food often. Castiel usually only has to go outside for some commissions and to reload his art supplies.

Castiel recognises most of the people there; he's seen them outside of the windows of his apartment, or on those rare occasions where he has to go to a client's house instead of the client coming to him. These people are not important to Castiel; he's only ever drawn them once, and he probably won't be drawing them ever again. He has no reason to. They serve no purpose in Castiel's life other than being another face in the never ending crowd. Why bother wasting paper on them when he could be trying out new faces? Or drawing Dean, who is currently storming between people, green eyes searching out something, or someone, in particular. Castiel ducks behind an older, balding man, keeping his eyes on Dean. He can't let Dean see him, but he can't stop watching the man as he moves swiftly through the crowds, the hazy light tinting his hair blond.

_I'm going to need a new sketchbook._ Castiel thinks to himself as he continues to follow Dean through the crowd. Dean looks nice in a suit; he has the whole James Bond look going on, but the suit doesn't seem as natural on the man as the leather jacket did when Castiel first saw him in the bar. Castiel thinks that Dean belongs in leather, in denim and layers and jeans. Relaxed yet still attractive. Because if Gabe's opinion is to be believed (and in this case, Castiel thinks it is), then Castiel finds Dean to be attractive.

Castiel isn't paying close enough attention to where he's going, and so he finds himself colliding (literally) with a certain green-eyed, very attractive man by the name of Dean. Castiel freezes; he can't move, he can't even open his mouth to try and stutter out an apology that will most likely be nothing but noises, he can't flee the building and never leave his apartment ever again like his instincts are telling him to do.

"Oh sh—I mean, _sorry_. I didn't… didn't see you." Dean steps back, one, two steps, his hands still in the air as a way of apologising. Castiel is still frozen in his trench coat. He has to get away, now, before Dean realises who the fuck he is talking to, and realises that this is the failure of a person and success of an artist that hurled a sharpie at him two weeks ago. Castiel has to get away before Dean starts talking to him, because there is no way in heaven, hell, or purgatory that Castiel will be able to get out of this conversation alive. Castiel knows that this attempt as conversing with a very attractive man who knows nothing about Cas Milton can and will only end one way: badly. Worse than the time two Christmases ago when Gabe forced Castiel to help him fly the Christmas tree off the top of Gabe's apartment building.

But then Dean's green eyes widen, and Castiel realises _shit it's too late he knows_ because Dean remembers Castiel from the first time that they met. And so Castiel is so royally fucked that he makes the king's whores look like chaste virgins. Dean points at Castiel. "You're Cas, right? Friends with the camera guy who told me to come to this thing?"

Somehow, Castiel's neck muscles begin to work and he finds himself nodding in reply to Dean's question. All the signs that Gabe had told him about are clicking into action now. Castiel's heart is pounding, he can feel his face heating up and he knows that his face is turning red. His throat is dry and he can't think about anything other than the fact that Dean has a freckle on the edge of his upper lip, and Castiel is hating himself that he didn't notice that detail the first time, because now he has to draw Dean _again_ to get his face right. Also, Dean has slight stubble that Castiel missed, or maybe that's because Castiel caught Dean on a non-shaving day today. Either way, Castiel's going to have to draw some more Dean.

He also wants to count all of Dean's freckles so that he doesn't miss any of them in the next round of Dean drawings. Dean doesn't let him do that; Dean turns away from Castiel and to the paintings. "So, all this is yours?"

Dean points to a particular piece, a portrait of Castiel's younger sister, Anna, drawn when Castiel was still part of the Milton family. Gabe had been the one to choose that portrait, because Gabe didn't know that Castiel hated looking at the old portraits of his family members. They just reminded him of the one decision that he hadn't been able to avoid: having his family's acceptance or being able to do what made him feel semi-normal. Castiel had chosen the second, had chosen to become an artist, and had promptly been kicked to the curb by his own flesh and blood. Anna hadn't vouched for Castiel's cause, (Gabe had, he had been there as the only moral support Castiel could find) she had just stood there and watched as she lost her brother. She's just let him go without trying to protect him at all.

"Y-yes." Castiel felt like he was yanking the word out from the depths of his throat. _Eating sandpaper_, Castiel thought, _would be smoother and easier than doing this_. But at the same time that he thought that, Castiel knew that he still wanted to be around Dean. This qualified as another sign of attraction, according to the all-knowing Gabriel Speight.

"They're all really good." Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. Castiel could tell that he wasn't an artistically inclined person; Dean probably wouldn't be able to identify any artists' works other than the basic and well-known ones. Still, the compliment warmed Castiel more than any other eloquent praise he could have received from the highest of art critics (who wouldn't have praised him anyway; Castiel learned long ago that no art critic ever outright says something nice about an artist). _They're all really good_ meant so much more to Castiel because Castiel wanted Dean to like him and to find him interesting, because if Dean decided that Castiel was interesting and worth his time then that meant that Castiel would have a chance. Castiel could learn how to act like a normal member of society around Dean (and maybe some other people, depending on how long this took). Castiel could get Dean to like him too, if only Dean thought he was interesting. And Dean thought he was interesting.

_Success_.

Somehow, the two of them had ended up in front of the portrait of Anna. Dean's eyes flickered across the canvas, taking it all in. Castiel waited beside Dean, waiting for the questions that he knew would soon come out of the bartender's mouth. Castiel knew that they would be asked, but that didn't mean he wanted (or was prepared to) answer any of them.

"Who's that?" Dean motions to the picture. "She's attractive."

"Thank you…" Castiel's words ghosted past his lips and into the air around them, disappearing into the murmur of the other voices before Dean could hear them. Castiel could barely hear his own words; they had been so quiet. _Thank you._ Castiel didn't mind when people complemented his work; he appreciated it for the most part but he had never really thought that he was deserving of their praise. Sure, he had given up some things to get to where he was now, but everyone had to make sacrifices. Castiel was not _that_ special.

"You've probably been asked this a bunch of times before, and you're probably getting tired of having to answer the same question… but, uh, is she your girlfriend or something?" If Castiel's mind was not currently being over-ridden by his nerves, he might have cracked a smile, perhaps even laughed, at the sheer ridiculousness of him having a girlfriend. Instead, Castiel just stared at Dean, trying to process whether he was being serious or not (Castiel still hadn't figured out how to decipher sarcasm from sincerity). He was also getting distracted by various features of Dean's face that the dim lights of the bar had failed to pick up two weeks prior.

Dean had asked him a question, though, and Castiel (social genius that he is) was just staring at the man. One day, Castiel will get a warning label stamped on his face (probably by Gabe) that will say to approach with caution, or risk exposure to social awkwardness that will most likely make radiation poisoning seem like a more comfortable death.

"Cas? You still there?" Dean placed his hand on Castiel's shoulder and looked at the shorter man with genuine concern. Or at least Castiel assumed that the concern was genuine, but he was kind of really having a hard time keeping his mind together because Dean is touching him and any chance of having a rational thought sequence has now totally disappeared from the reaches of Castiel's mind because they are rather close to each other…

"I… eeh…" Castiel sounded like a horse giving birth to a whale, and so he shut his mouth, turned red, took a breath through his nose, took another, and then tried again. He shudders the words out. "Wh-what wa-as the… the… qu-question…?"

Dean laughed, and it was one of (okay, you know what, _fuck_ _that_, it _definitely_ was) the best sounds Castiel had ever heard in his life, ever. Dean took his hand off of Castiel's shoulder and Castiel regained the ability to properly change oxygen into carbon dioxide once more. Dean flashed Castiel a slightly too large grin. "I asked if she was your girlfriend or not."

"Sh-she's… n-not. No." Castiel blurted out. His face turned the colour of Anna's hair because of his damn voice. It was so gravelly and deep and it just didn't work with his personality. That was Castiel's own personal opinion on his voice, of course, seeing as no one else had ever told Castiel that there was something wrong with how his voice sounded. So maybe it wasn't as bad as Castiel thought it was. Castiel swallowed, nearly choking on air as he did so. Gabe was right; he really _did_ suck at the whole interacting with the outside world thing. "Sis-sister."

"Oh. Cool." Dean nodded, probably wondering (once again) why Castiel kept staring at him. Castiel _knows_ that he has a staring problem, and that his problem disturbs a lot of people a lot of the time, but he just can't stop it, he can't stop staring, especially around Dean. Dean's just so… _Dean_. Dean was also talking to Castiel again, so maybe Castiel should come back out of his head and try to focus on the words and not eh mouth that they're coming out of.

"… and my brother, Sam, he's here somewhere. Your friend invited him… okay, actually, _I_ invited Sam, but your friend had no problem with it. Anyway, Sam's here… _somewhere_." Dean looked past Castiel and searched the crowd to try and find his brother, but was unsuccessful. "We were trying to find the son of a bitch that candid-photoed us, so I guess Sam just went off in a different direction from me or something. He's kind of an art nerd. He likes your stuff."

"Oh." Another compliment. Castiel was starting to think that Dean was thrown into Castiel's life for the sole purpose of testing out how embarrassed and red-faced Castiel could possibly become while in the presence of a single person. Castiel rubbed the back of his neck and became very interested in the tiles on the floor (actually, Castiel did not find the tiles very interesting at all, but he had heard that people tended to look down at the floor to help overcome their embarrassment, and so he thought that he would try it. It didn't help). He tried to stay in reality and not crawl back into his mind. "Um… th-thank y-you…?"

"Yeah." Castiel can feel Dean's gaze on him; Dean is trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with Castiel. Castiel can tell because, if this conversation was happening with anyone else, they would have backed away slowly by now instead of still hanging around to see what Castiel would do next. Castiel looked up at Dean. And then lost the ability to oxygenate for the second time in this conversation.

Wait. _Pause_. Stop whatever the fuckbagels you were doing. Castiel Milton is having a _conversation_ with _another_ _person_ whose name is not Gabe. Castiel Milton is having a conversation on his _own_ _free_ _will_. And now, cue the apocalypse.

Okay, not really. But _still_. Gabe would be proud, because despite the fact that what Castiel and Dean are having is awkward and choppy, it still qualifies as conversation. Castiel nearly choked when he realised that, and was saved from immortal embarrassment because Dean kept talking. _Thank you, Dean._

"You don't look very comfortable here. Do you wanna go sit down or something?" Dean says, and Castiel decides that his best option at the moment is to just keep his mouth shut and nod and follow Dean over to where there are tiny tables set up for people to pause at when they aren't looking at the artwork. Castiel and Dean sat down at a table close to the bar, and Dean leaned forward, his elbows on the table. They're work hands, Castiel thought as his blue eyes took in the structured, callused appendages; hands had never before been the focal point of Castiel's work because he had kept himself trained on people's faces. Now, however, he was considering learning the fine art of making realistic looking hands, for the sake of Dean's hands only.

"Better?" Dean's voice dragged Castiel's eyes back up to his favourite subjects face. Castiel nodded. "I… I'm b-bad at… p-people… t-t-talking to… to th-them…"

"I could tell." Dean leaned back as a server passed by and grabbed two drinks. He handed one to Castiel with a smile. Castiel took the drink from Dean, gave the man an awkward and curt nod, and emptied the vial in one long gulp. Castiel has a tendency to drink fast and hold his liquor well; he blames Gabriel for that as it was Gabriel's fault for Castiel discovering that alcohol can help in social situations. Castiel swallowed again, this time swallowing nothing but his own saliva, and wished that there had been a bit more in the glass so that he would have had time to gather up his thoughts and attempt normal conversation with Dean. Castiel wanted to talk to Dean; he was just socially awkward and shy beyond belief.

"So, uh, how long have you been doing… art-stuff?" Dean finished the question with a note of uncertainty. Dean didn't know what he should classify Castiel's drawings as since art wasn't his area of expertise. Dean smiled again to try to cover his lack of knowledge on the subject. "Because you're good. _Freaking_ _fantastic_, Cas. They look like _photographs_."

"Th-they… aren't…" And then Castiel was blushing again as he looked down at the pristine white tablecloth. He wanted another drink, because he needed something for his hands to do , otherwise he was afraid that he would end up drawing on the tablecloth, which would most likely get him kicked out. Wealthy people didn't like it when awkward artist drew on their stuff.

Also, getting kicked out of one's own art show is never a good sign. _Ever_.

"How'd you learn to draw like that, anyway?" If Castiel were to look up at Dean, he would realize that the man was genuinely interested in Castiel's art and that even though Dean knew almost nothing about the art world he was currently in the middle of, he was still trying. That was more than Castiel could say about himself and his interactions with people; Castiel preferred to avoid people as much as he could.

"I… t-taught my-myself…" Castiel stuttered, and mentally smacked himself for it. He might have been stuttering, but at least what he was saying was English now and not dying animal sounds.

"Could you draw something? Now?" Castiel looked up at Dean, his head tilted to the right. Dean wanted him to draw? "H-here? R-really…?"

Apparently Castiel asked that question out loud, because Dean nodded and then dug through his inside jacket pocket, looking for a piece of paper. He pulled one out after a few seconds; it was a receipt from the bar, with a blank back side, and he held it out to Castiel with a grin that Castiel fell for immediately. Dean slid it across the table, to Castiel. "Do you think this'll work?"

Castiel nodded and pulled out his sharpie pen from his pocket. It was the same pen that he had dropped on the floor (read: flung at Dean) of the bar where he was first met Dean, and that's what Castiel was thinking as he began creating another Dean drawing. Dean, in the ink-sketch Castiel was working on, was holding out the sharpie pen, two beers entwined between the fingers of his other hand. There was a half-hidden smile on his face. This Dean was mostly in Castiel's mind, but he was slowly oozing out onto the back of an old receipt. Real Dean, the one sitting across from Castiel, was watching Castiel draw with his face blank, his amazement hidden behind the green eyes that had always captured Castiel's attention the most. The two men sat there; Castiel drew Dean with a sharpie that would soon run out of ink (and was probably bleeding through the paper and onto the tablecloth, but Castiel wasn't thinking about that at the moment) and Dean was watching himself be drawn by an (almost) complete stranger.

"Done." Castiel said, to himself and not to Dean. He had actually forgotten that he was drawing with an audience because he had gotten so into his work. Castiel did that often; he would start drawing, get into it, finish, look up, and wonder where the hell he was and how he had gotten there. Castiel tilted his head to the side again and his blue eyes flicked from one Dean to the other. "Wh-what?"

"You drew me." Stating the obvious, of course, but Dean's voice brought Castiel's thoughts back to order. That was somewhat ironic, seeing as it was Dean who usually _caused_ Castiel's mind to either implode or stop functioning, or both at the same time.

Dean grasped a corner of the receipt between his fingers and started to pull it away from Castiel, his eyes on the dark-haired man as he did so. He was making sure that it was okay to examine the art, making sure that Castiel Milton wasn't one of those anal-retentive artist types who didn't let anyone touch anything of theirs. Castiel let Dean take the sketch; he stared back at Dean and make sure not to show any signs of discontent as Dean took the sketch. Dean broke the staring first by looking down at the almost perfect replica of himself from two weeks ago.

Castiel snagged another drink and downed it like it was water. It wasn't, and it burned Castiel's throat as he swallowed, but Castiel didn't care because Dean was looking at one of the hundreds of portraits Castiel had made of Dean, and he isn't questioning how Castiel remembers what he looked like two weeks ago when he was serving Gabe and Castiel beer. Dean looked back up and met Castiel's eyes. "I'm guessing you were the one who drew my face on one of the tables then, huh? Sam saw it and thought if was from some creepy secret admirer or something."

And then Castiel was blushing again; his mouth opened and closed as he tried to formulate words. Castiel coughed, swallowed, and then coughed again. He ran a hand trough his hair, making it stand up at odd angles. "I… I'm n-not… c-c-creepy, r-right…?"

"No, Cas, you're just an artist. Drawing me is okay. Just, uh, do everyone a favour and try to stay off the tables, 'kay?" Dean smirked, and Castiel's mouth twitched, about to be a smile. Castiel somehow managed to nod. "O-okay…"

The crowds were thinning, which meant that the show was almost over, and it was time for Castiel to find Gabe and go home. Castiel didn't really want to leave yet, because he was with Dean, and Dean was willing to try to talk to him, and Castiel didn't feel the need to go retreat into the corner around Dean. Castiel _likes_ Dean, and can (somewhat) be around him.

But then Dean stood up and pulled out his phone, and Castiel realised that it really was time to go, so he slipped out of his chair and left to go find Gabe without saying goodbye to Dean. Castiel wasn't being rude; he just wasn't used to having successful conversations with anyone other than Gabe, who usually just ended a conversation with a snappy comment before striding off.

Dean noticed Castiel trying to slip away into the crowd, and called after the trench coat clad artist. Castiel turned around, startled to hear someone calling him Cas and not Castiel, but then relaxed slightly when he realised that it was only Dean. He let Dean come over to him, but when Dean held out his phone to Castiel, Castiel tilted his head, confused once again. "… Phone?"

"Put your number in, so I can call you." Dean said, and then tossed the phone into Castiel's outstretched hands. "It was nice talking to you, Cas. You're kinda awkward… but you're an art guy, so that's okay. I can get used to that."

Castiel stared down at the phone. His hands were trembling because he was touching something of Dean's and for some reason that made him both nervous and excited at the same time. Castiel blamed the whole attraction-slash-crush thing Gabe had told him about. Castiel tapped in the number of his rarely used cell phone (who would he call besides Gabe?) before he handed the phone back to Dean. "Thank… y-you."

"No problem." Dean looked at him oddly, but Castiel had expected that. Even though Dean said that he was okay with Castiel's awkwardness, that didn't mean that Dean knew what he was getting himself into. Castiel knew that he was odd, that he was socially unacceptable, but despite that, Dean had accepted him and so everything else would be okay.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, please leave reviews, because reviews, as you noticed, make me very happy!**

**-Tammy**


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